As Our Worlds Move On
by Rambling Scribe
Summary: *Spoilers up to 9.4* The boundaries of their relationship are still shifting, still indistinct; they're both trying to find a way forward, but is this the right way?
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Spooks belongs to Kudos and the BBC. Title taken from the lyrics of 'In This Shirt' by The Irrepressibles.  
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**A/N: Spoilers/speculative spoilers up to and including 9.4. This started as one thing and then went in an unexpected direction. Angst and grown up content. **

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_Sometimes, you have to give a man a chance, Ruth, to show you who he really is._

His words haven't gone away; they keep reverberating around her head – a low-level hum, most of the time, when her mind is occupied with the myriad problems of the working day. They are louder in the early hours of the morning; loud enough to wake her, cutting through the jumble of half-remembered dreams and memories that punctuate her sleep. And they won't leave her alone because she knows he spoke from the heart, and he's right.

And yet…

She's still feels angry with him at times, still blames him for George, for Nico, for Jo, even Ros. In her calmer, quieter moments she knows her anger is fuelled by grief and guilt. She is judging him for decisions made in difficult circumstances yet pushing him to make difficult decisions when he falters. They are off-kilter, both of them, and it's making it almost impossible to separate out her feelings for him. But she does know that somewhere in the teeming mess of her emotions, her love for him still survives, albeit tarnished and dented, not that it's helping her to work out what she wants, from Harry or life.

The sound of a siren slices through the evening air and Ruth realises she's done a full circuit of the park and is back by Horse Guards Road. A police car races past, heading towards The Mall. She watches it disappear out of view, debating whether to ring Dimitri and tell him she'd like to take him up on his offer of a drink after all. He's charming and funny; a couple of hours in his company would provide a pleasant, and much needed, break from the endless, torturous contemplation of her relationship with Harry. And it could lead to something else, which in turn would undoubtedly lead to more heartache and wounded egos. So she decides against it, crosses the road and heads towards the parade ground. She'll stand a better chance of getting a cab on Whitehall and, with luck, will be home within half an hour.

-x-

Ruth surveys the interesting array of ready meals that have appeared in her fridge. Whilst cooking is obviously not one of Beth's prime interests, she clearly enjoys her food. Everything appears to be from the nothing-under-a-fiver, Marks and Spencer luxury range. She reads a few of the labels, eventually finding something that appeals, and puts it in the microwave.

She's busy opening a bottle of wine, taken from a case that Beth seems to have acquired from an exclusive vintners in Chelsea, when there is a knock at the door.

"I, er, I wasn't expecting you, Harry," she greets him, more than a little thrown by his appearance on her doorstep.

"I thought I'd should drop by. Make sure you're all right," he replies. "You don't mind if I come in do you?" he adds, already across the threshold and closing the door behind him before she can draw breath.

She follows him into the living room. "I was just about to have something to eat."

"I won't stay long. Like I said, I just want to make sure you're all right."

"I'm fine."

He looks at her for a long moment before turning his attention to the room. "Beth not here?" he enquires, casually.

"She's out, flat-hunting."

"You two not getting on?"

Unsettled by his presence and still recovering from the day's events, Ruth finds the question far more irritating than she should.

"Given I didn't get any say about her moving in, Lucas expects me to spy on her and the small matter of her killing a couple of Colombian hitmen in my hall, I wouldn't describe it as a match made in heaven. Would you?"

"To be fair, she didn't kill the Colombians herself. And I thought you liked her."

Ruth turns away muttering something that sounds suspiciously like 'infuriating bastard' but he lets it go. She does an abrupt about turn and stomps past him, heading into the kitchen. He waits for a minute or two, considering whether it's wise to follow her into a room where she has easy access to sharp implements and heavy objects. He decides to risk it.

She's attempting to remove the plastic film from her microwave dinner and swearing as puffs of steam from the contents burn her fingers.

"Sorry," he offers, from just inside the doorway, "for being infuriating."

Her hands still and she raises her head but doesn't look at him.

"Is that for being infuriating in general or for back there?"

"Both."

She puts the food back in the microwave, presses a couple of buttons and then turns to face him. "Do you want a glass of wine?"

They seem to have reached a truce.

"Please."

After she pours his drink she retreats a little and stands with her back to the sink.

"This is good," Harry says, appreciatively, and picks up the bottle to inspect the label.

"Beth got it. Says it's from someone she knows. I suspect she may have held them at gunpoint for it. Or she has some particularly juicy information on them and they pay her by the caseload to keep quiet."

"I don't think you believe that for one moment," Harry replies, amused.

Ruth shrugs, wearily. "God knows, Harry. I know I don't."

"You haven't answered my question."

How does he do that? He's standing right in front of her and she hadn't even realised he'd moved.

"Are you all right?" he prompts, into the silence.

She fidgets about, looks at the floor then the ceiling. "I told you, I'm fine," she mumbles, using her wineglass to shield her face.

He knows she's lying.

"When I heard about the explosion-"

"Harry!"

"I was worried about you! Can't you even allow me _that_?"

The hurt and anger in his voice stabs at her conscience and she finally looks him in the eye. "I'm OK, really. It wasn't that big an explosion," she adds, desperate to take the heat out the situation. "I'm still in one piece."

He doesn't believe that either.

He tilts her chin up with the index finger of his right hand and studies her face. "You've cut your lip. Any other damage?"

It still shocks hers to feel his touch, and it happens so infrequently she can remember every time. Vividly.

"B-bit of a headache," she stutters out. "And my ears are still ringing."

He nods.

Then he kisses her, sucking gently on her bottom lip. And then he backs her up against the sink and somehow manages to relieve her of her glass whilst still kissing her. Now they have only each other to occupy their hands with, they rearrange themselves, pressing their bodies more firmly together. Her hands are under his shirt, her fingers stroking the smooth skin of his back. She runs a fingernail lightly up his spine and is rewarded with more of his tongue in her mouth.

His hands are on her hips, then her thighs, clutching at her skirt, trying to hitch the material up. Eventually, he succeeds and his fingers move slowly, exploring the soft flesh he has exposed. She squirms against him, heat against hardness, and they are so close, _so_ close…

"Not here," Ruth gasps.

This is not the response Harry expects and enough of his brain remains unclouded by lust to understand she's saying no, stop; for the moment, at least.

He loosens his hold on her. "Sorry, sorry," he croaks out, voice unsteady.

"It's just…Beth…she could walk in."

"And this would take some explaining."

Ruth laughs, softly, and steadies herself against him. "I think it would be quite clear what we're doing."

"Probably. But not why."

She looks at him; his eyes are still dark with desire. "No, not why."

He finally releases her, and begins to straighten his clothes. "I should go. Leave you in peace."

"Harry-"

"It's OK."

It isn't OK and they both know it; but neither of them have any idea what they should do.

She hears the door click shut when he leaves. Fifteen minutes later, when Beth arrives home, she's still standing in the same spot in the kitchen.

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**To be continued…**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Spooks still belongs to Kudos and the BBC.**

**A/N 1: This chapter has adult content. **

**A/N 2: This is the unexpected direction the story went in – grown up Harry and Ruth. I don't expect everyone to like it and some people may think it's out of character but here it is.**

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The Grid is almost empty when Harry returns from yet another interminable Whitehall meeting; only Dimitri and Tariq are still at their desks. He wonders where Ruth is and glances discreetly at her workstation as he passes. Her computer has been switched off and everything's been tidied away; she's already left. Reaching this conclusion invokes a sense of disappointment and he continues into his office without speaking to his younger colleagues.

He's been sitting at his desk for several minutes before he realises there is an envelope partially hidden under the computer keyboard; he pulls it free. The only thing written on it is his name, in unmistakeable handwriting. It bends slightly under the weight of its contents. So not a resignation letter. The suddenness with which he considers and dismisses the idea surprises him. A subconscious thought finally acknowledged – he's worried that the events of the last few weeks will prove to be too much for her and she will leave. And he's worried that those brief, passion-filled moments they shared a few days earlier have complicated things even more and given her another reason to go.

Harry is still mulling over this thought when he opens the envelope and removes the contents - a hotel key-card and a folded piece of paper. The note has co-ordinates on it and a simple message: _Here. 8.00 pm. Room 905. I'll wait for one hour._

His stomach turns over and he doesn't know whether it's fear or anticipation or a mixture of both. It's ridiculous that so few words can cause such a reaction.

"Harry?"

Tariq's voice drags his mind away from thoughts of Ruth and cryptic messages.

"Um, is it OK if we go?"

Harry looks up at the young man standing in the doorway and then out across the Grid; Dimitri is busy putting his jacket on.

"Yes. Go on, get out of here. Before I change my mind and find you something else to do."

Tariq grins. "Thanks, Harry. Night."

Once his two young officers have gone, Harry turns his attention back to the key-card and the note. An on-line search reveals the co-ordinates are for a hotel in Docklands. He considers the quickest route to get there; he doesn't consider not going.

-x-

Ruth looks at her reflection in the bathroom mirror as she washes her hands. She still can't quite believe she's done this but she's determined to go through with it if he turns up. He _will_ turn up. Curiosity will bring him even if his desire doesn't. He'll want to know what this is about, and she will explain. She'll tell him she thinks this is the solution; an hour or two of casual lovemaking to sate each other's needs, soothe each other's hearts. She'll tell him this is what he can have, what they can have; occasional trysts, to keep them functioning. It will be enough. It has to be enough.

She goes back into the bedroom and pours herself a glass of water. She glances at the clock on the table next to the bed: 7.42 pm. Did he get out of his meeting on time? How long ago did he find the envelope? Is he on his way? The questions swirl around her head. Soon, she will know the answers.

-x-

Harry focuses on the route map above the seats opposite him. The decision to use the tube had been an easy one to make, and it wasn't just to avoid getting stuck in traffic. He didn't want the registration number of his car recorded on traffic cameras or the hotel's CCTV. And his mind is occupied with other things, with Ruth. He keeps thinking about how it felt to kiss her, to touch her. He keeps thinking about how much he wanted her, how hard he was. If she hadn't stopped him, he would have had her, there and then, up against the sink.

In an effort to distract himself from his more carnal thoughts, he shifts his gaze to his fellow passengers and attempts some discreet people watching. It's only partially successful and he's relieved when the train finally arrives at Canary Wharf. He's impatient now and walks up the escalators, into the night air.

She's chosen well; the hotel is large, non-descript, and part of a multi-national chain. Their presence won't stand out. They're just two people passing through.

Reception is busy and his arrival goes unnoticed but he heads straight for the stairs anyway. The first floor is quieter and he gets the lift to himself. His heart is beginning to race and by the time he's standing outside her room, his hands are trembling.

He takes a deep breath and slides the card into the lock; there's a click and he pushes the door open.

She's standing by the window, her back to the room, but turns to look at him as he walks in.

"You're here."

He smiles. "Yes, I am. And so are you."

Ruth watches Harry as he takes his coat off and hangs it up next to hers. He crosses the room and stops a few feet from her. She meets his gaze for a moment and then her eyes flicker downwards, focusing on the open neck of his shirt. The memory of the last time she saw him without a tie is painful and she looks away.

"How was your journey?" she asks, clutching at the inane to avoid guilt and self-recrimination.

"Fine," Harry replies, moving nearer to her. "The Jubilee line was remarkably well-behaved."

"You got the tube?"

"It has been known."

"Sorry," she says, letting out a breathy laugh before falling silent.

He's so close now she can smell his aftershave. She remembers a pavement café and a waiter leaning over her; he'd been wearing the same cologne and it had bought back such intense memories that she'd fled, in tears.

She briefly closes her eyes. When she opens them again, Harry is taking his jacket off. He lays it over the arm of a nearby chair and then starts to roll up his shirtsleeves.

A thought occurs to her as she watches him.

"Where are your cufflinks?" she questions.

"I took them off before I left the office." He pauses, debating whether to say any more. "Stops them getting lost," he continues, reasoning she deserves some honesty, albeit obliquely, about his reasons for being here. "And it saves time."

She looks around the room. "You've done this before," she says, quietly, her eyes focussing on him again.

He nods. "But not for a long time." And not with someone he cares for so deeply.

And now she seems so sad, so vulnerable, it makes his chest constrict and guilt sits heavily in his heart. He lifts his hand up and tenderly cups her face.

"Are we completely broken, Ruth. You and me, us?"

If only it were that simple.

"There are times, Harry, when I think the answer to that is yes."

"And the times you don't?"

"Then I think I don't know, I'll never know."

"Perhaps we shouldn't be here," he says, gently stroking his thumb over her cheek.

"Perhaps. But we are."

This time, _she_ kisses _him_; open-mouthed, demanding his full attention, which she gets.

They make it to the bed, helping each other discard their clothes on the way, and the cool cotton sheets are deliciously stimulating against their heated skin. They can't get enough of each other; can't decide where to kiss next, where to touch.

Harry pulls away a little so he can look at her. He can't quite believe she's lying there, legs parted, offering herself to him. He shouldn't be rushing this; he should be taking his time, teasing her, arousing her. The thought is lost as she touches him, guiding him inside her; she wants this as much as he does and he can't deny her, or himself, any longer.

-x-

Harry wakes, disorientated, and it takes him several seconds to remember where he is, who he's with. He reaches out for her but she's not there. His disappointment subsides when he realises she's sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Ruth?"

She doesn't reply but continues fumbling with her bra, trying to fasten the clasp.

He shifts himself closer to her. "Ruth," he repeats, "what are you doing?"

"I have to go," she says, still not turning around to look at him.

"Stay a bit longer." He kisses the small of her back. "Please."

"No. Beth will be wondering where I've got to."

The mattress dips as he moves. Suddenly Ruth can feel the warmth of his body as he surrounds her, trapping her between his legs.

"You're a grown woman," he whispers, brushing her hair away from the back of her neck. "You're allowed to spend the night away from home."

His lips are soft against her skin; soft and distracting. Despite trying not to, she finds herself falling back into his touch.

"Harry," she pleads, as his arms slide around her, pulling her against him.

"I'm not a young man, Ruth; I need a bit more recovery time. But there are other things I can do."

She doesn't respond and he wonders whether he should continue. He finds it strange to have doubts because he used to be good at this - telling a woman in explicit detail what he would do - but with her, it's different. Everything's different.

He inhales, deeply, and the scent of her skin is enough to spur him on.

"There are other things I can do, to give you pleasure. I could use my mouth, my tongue. Do you like that?"

As he speaks, his left hand caresses her breast, his thumb lightly brushing the nipple, and his right hand moves smoothly down her stomach, dipping inside her knickers. Her back arches as one of his fingers starts to tease over her still highly sensitised flesh.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" he breathes in her ear, voice roughened with lust.

It does feel good and she can't stop herself from grinding against his hand, wanting more of him, more of what he's doing to her, giving to her. She opens her eyes with the intention of watching him touching her but then she catches sight of their reflection in the window. Her face burns, not with arousal or desire but with shame. She stops the movement of his fingers and he doesn't resist when she places his hand back on her stomach.

He kisses her shoulder, tenderly. "Next time-"

"I can't…I can't promise that there'll be a next time. Please, Harry; don't ask me to."

To her relief, he stays silent; she doesn't want him to try and change her mind because she knows he could, quite easily.

"I really do have to go," she says, pulling her bra back into place and once again struggling to do it up.

"It's inside out," Harry remarks, watching her fingers unsuccessfully tugging at the black material.

He gently slips the garment off her and turns it out the correct way before holding it up so she can slide her arms through the straps.

"See? I'm just as good at putting your clothes on," he comments, dryly, as he fastens the bra.

She turns her head so she can look at him, and smiles.

"Ah, I can make you smile."

Despite the humorous tone of his voice, his eyes are full of sadness and she has to fight the urge to cry.

"Anything else you need help with?" he asks, trying to lighten the mood.

Ruth shakes her head. "No, I can manage."

She gathers up the rest of her clothes and goes into the bathroom. When she returns, Harry is shaking out the bedclothes and muttering to himself. He looks so incongruous, dressed only in boxers, shirt and one sock, she starts to laugh.

He stops what he's doing and looks at her. "You shouldn't laugh at me when I'm not wearing any trousers. I might get the wrong idea."

"Sorry," she says, trying, and failing, to straighten her face. "What on earth are you doing?"

"I've lost a sock." He dumps the sheets back on the bed and sits down on the end of the mattress. "Bollocks."

Ruth spots the errant item, sticking out from under the bed, picks it up and hands it to Harry.

"Not going to tell me I didn't look properly, are you?" he asks as he puts on the newly found sock.

"No."

"Good answer." He winks at her. "Now come here."

As she gets nearer to him, he reaches out and takes her hands in his, pulling her closer.

"Give me five minutes to finish getting dressed and I'll come with you."

"I don't think that's a good idea, Harry."

He can tell from her insistent tone that it's pointless trying to argue with her.

"Then at least me know you get home safely. Please? A text message will be fine."

She agrees to his request with a small nod of her head.

"Thank you." He lifts her hands to his mouth and delicately kisses her knuckles. He looks up at her and feels a surge of emotions; love, lust, and a profound regret that this evening might prove to be his only experience of making love with her.

Ruth can feel her resolve beginning to crumble; she needs to leave, now. "I should go."

Harry reluctantly releases her. He follows her as she heads towards the door.

"Be careful," he says, helping her on with her coat. "There are a lot of strange people on public transport."

"I know." She turns to face him and occupies her idle fingers by doing up his shirt buttons. "Don't forget to put your trousers on," she instructs, straightening his collar.

"Oh, I don't know. Might brighten up the receptionist's evening."

"Or get you arrested."

He leans down to kiss her on the cheek and unexpectedly finds himself drawn into a tight embrace.

"You be careful, too," she whispers in his ear.

She lets go of him as quickly as she'd held him and is gone before he can reply.

-x-

As Harry leaves the underground station, his phone vibrates. The text is simple:

_Home safe. R x _

He smiles to himself, feeling ridiculously happy that she's signed her message with a kiss. And a little bit of hope takes up residence in his heart.

**

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To be continued…**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: Still not mine, apparently.**

**A/N: Thanks to everyone who's been reading, and for the lovely reviews and encouragement. Here's some more.****Please note:**_** Very**_** adult content! Plus angst but some light at the end of the tunnel…**

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Ruth opens her desk drawer, reaches in for her handbag and then stops. Sticking out of one of the pockets is an envelope. Her fingers hover over it as indecision grips her. Finally, she grasps the edge of it and pulls it out. Her name is neatly inscribed on the front in black ink. In _his_ handwriting. She clumsily rips open the envelope, already certain she knows what the contents will be. She's right. Wrapped around a hotel key-card is a piece of writing paper. Good quality paper she notices as she unfolds the note. Written on it are map co-ordinates, a room number and a time. Just as she had left for him, nine days ago.

Nine days and they still haven't talked about what happened. Not that there's been much opportunity to. Or rather, they've not created an opportunity to. There have been moments, loaded silences with looks exchanged, when it seemed one or other of them might dare to say something but neither of them have seemed to know how to start the conversation.

Until now.

But she doubts he has invited her to a hotel to talk, at least, not _just_ to talk. And despite her misgivings, she feels a frisson of anticipation, and desire.

-x-

The westbound District line platform at Westminster underground station is busy and Ruth carefully picks her way through the last of the commuters and first of the evening's revellers. She looks at the display board – only two minutes until the train arrives. Enough time to change her mind if she wants to. She doesn't.

It's only four stops. South Kensington this time. The hotel is five minutes walk from the tube and typically Harry; luxurious, expensive, and with a reputation for absolute discretion.

-x-

Harry is sitting with his feet resting on the coffee table when he hears the door open. He stands up and turns to look at her.

"Hi."

"Hi," she replies, nervously.

"Found it all right then."

"Yes. Wasn't that difficult."

He laughs. "No, I suppose not." He looks at her hands, anxiously turning the plastic key-card around and around. "Do you want a drink?"

She nods and ventures further into the room. As he pours her a whisky, she looks around, taking in her surroundings. The suite is tastefully decorated and obviously from the higher end of the hotel's tariff. The thought rests uneasily in her mind, and doubt churns in her stomach when she sees the open bedroom door and the king size bed that lies beyond it.

"Why don't you take your coat off and sit down?" Harry suggests, aware of the direction of her gaze, if not her thoughts.

She does as he says and perches, awkwardly, on the end of the sofa. He places her drink on the table in front of her and sits next to her.

"I've missed you, Ruth."

"But it's only been a couple of hours since you last saw me," she answers, puzzled by his comment.

"That's not what I meant." He leans towards her and kisses her cheek. "And you know it."

Ruth sucks in a sharp breath. There's something irresistible about him when he's like this. The dangerous combination of vulnerability and barely restrained sexual desire, coupled with the knowledge of what he can do to her, sends her thought process in only one direction. She turns her head and their mouths meet.

Their soft, slow kisses soon escalate, and before long, they're both breathless, turned on and desperate for the feel of bare skin against bare skin.

"I'm not doing it on the bloody sofa," Harry announces, pulling away from Ruth and standing up. "Not when there's a big, comfortable bed a few feet away."

They make it into the bedroom, almost tripping over in their haste to get each other undressed.

"Tell me what you want," he commands, unzipping her skirt and sliding it down her legs. "Do you want me to fuck you or make love to you?"

"I want…both," she gasps out, then, emboldened by lust, she asks him, "What do you want?"

"I want you naked, and I want to taste you."

It's slow and deliberate. Every touch of his hands and stroke of his tongue is designed to tease and enflame. Her fears and doubts fade as his mouth moves to the inside of her thighs. All she can think about are his soft lips and the intense pleasure they promise if only he would…

And then he does.

He's relentless. Even after she climaxes he doesn't stop, continuing to please her with his mouth, his tongue, bringing her to another pulsating orgasm.

Her cries of pleasure, urging him on and on, serve only to increase his own desire. As much as he loves doing this to her, as much as he's enjoying it, a more overwhelming need is building in him.

He pulls her along the bed until her hips are level with the edge of the mattress and then grips her ankles, lifting her legs up. He's achingly hard and seeing her like this, exposed and unashamedly aroused, is nearly enough to finish him off. He moves forward, sliding smoothly into her. Wet, welcoming warmth surrounds him and he thrusts into it, into her, over and over. There's nothing genteel or romantic about this act. He's fucking her and it's exquisite.

He comes inside her, revelling in the sensation, and then his knees sag against the side of the bed. Her skin is flushed and damp with sweat; he can't resist running his hand over her breasts, across her stomach and down to where they are still joined together.

"I love you, Ruth," he says, fingers gently caressing her.

"Please, Harry, don't say that."

His brain is still in a post coital haze and as he struggles to make sense of her reply, she manoeuvres herself away from him. The loss of contact leaves him bereft.

"What's wrong?" he asks, kneeling beside her on the bed. "Tell me."

"This is wrong Harry." She gestures around the room. "_All_ of this."

He doesn't know what to say and his lack of response sparks a sudden fury in Ruth.

"_This_, Harry! Look at it! Did you think booking a ridiculously expensive suite would make me drop my knickers faster? Or is it to stop you feeling guilty?"

There's a stinging truth in her words that leaves him fumbling for an answer.

"I thought it would…"

"What Harry? What did you think?"

"I wanted it to be…special-"

"That's bollocks, Harry and you know it." She stands up and moves away from the bed. "There's only one reason we're here."

He goes to take hold of her arm as she begins to pick up her clothes but she shrugs him off. "Leave me alone."

"Please, Ruth. Stay. We can talk about this."

"There's nothing to talk about, Harry. I turned up, you fucked me. Mission accomplished."

"You...you make it sound so…clinical, so cold. It isn't like that."

"Christ, Harry! It's _exactly_ like that."

Confusion has turned to hurt, and anger, and the hold on his temper slips away.

"You're treating me like an eighteen year old with a permanent hard-on who's only interested in his next shag!"

"Then stop behaving like one!" she snaps back at him.

"You started this!" he shouts, and then regrets it. "Shit. I'm sorry. I didn't mean that."

"Yes you did. And it's true. I thought…I thought it would work. This… arrangement. But now-"

"I love you."

"Stop saying that. Stop it!"

He moves towards her. "No, I won't stop. I love you, Ruth."

"Well I wish you didn't!"

There is absolute silence.

"What…?" he finally manages, barely able to speak. "Ruth. Tell me you don't mean that, please."

"It's over, Harry. It's finished. All of it."

She watches the words cut into him and he visibly crumples, staggering back and sitting heavily on the edge of the bed. All of the life has gone out of him.

She flees from him, into the bathroom, slamming the door. Her hands fumble at the lock, finally pushing it into place. She leans against the door and closes her eyes. All she can see is his face and the pain in his eyes as she broke his heart. She feels sick; she broke his heart, ripped it out and stamped on the pieces.

The nausea turns to retching and she moves on unsteady feet to the toilet. Her hands grip the cold porcelain as her stomach spasms, painfully. When it eventually stops, when there's not even bile left, she sits back on heels. She runs a hand over her face, feeling the sweat and tears, and scrabbles at the damp strands of hair sticking to her skin. Suddenly, she can smell him; the scent of him is all over her, reminding her of what they've done. She needs to be clean, of him, of the memories, of all of it.

-x-

Eventually, something else registers in his mind, something apart from the pain and the shock. Her clothes are strewn across the floor so she must still be here, unless she's gone wearing only her overcoat. She was desperate enough.

He's relieved to see Ruth's bag and coat where she left them in the sitting room but there's no sign of her. The only place she can be is the bathroom and the sound of running water confirms this.

Repeated knocking at the door gets no response. Frustrated and worried, he slams his fist against the wood and immediately regrets it. He tentatively flexes his fingers; the only damage appears to be grazed knuckles. He tries the handle again but the door remains resolutely locked. He's considering kicking it open when an idea occurs to him. He crouches down to examine the doorknob; it's a standard safety lock that can be opened from the outside. It takes several attempts with one of the key-cards but eventually there's a click as it releases.

"Ruth?" he calls. "I'm opening the door. I won't come in if you don't want me to but at least let me talk to you."

She doesn't reply so he opens the door and cautiously peers into the bathroom. Ruth is huddled in the corner of the shower, head down, hugging her knees as the water streams over her. He calls her name several times but there's still no response. Deciding he'll take what ever abuse she'll throw at him, he walks towards the shower, stopping just outside. She doesn't acknowledge his presence so he reaches out to touch her, to get her attention, but snatches his arm back when the water hits his skin – it's ice cold.

"Fuck it!" he exclaims.

He fiddles with the shower controls until warm water flows. Ruth still hasn't moved. He sits down beside her, grimacing as his bare skin connects with the chilled tiles.

"Ruth? What are you doing? The water was freezing."

She remains silent and, at a loss as to what else to do, he slides his arm around her, pulling her against him. Surprisingly, she doesn't fight him but turns towards him, resting her head against his shoulder.

"I don't know what to do, Ruth," he begins, reasoning that one of them needs to start talking. "I can't stop loving you. It doesn't work like that. All the time you were…away, I didn't stop caring even though…" He's forced to stop, memories of those long, empty months still raw. "Even though I didn't think I'd ever see you again, I didn't stop loving you."

When she speaks, her voice is ragged and she sounds exhausted, defeated. "I'm so sorry, Harry. I didn't mean it. I don't wish you didn't love me."

He holds her as she cries, occasionally murmuring words of comfort.

"I know I fucked things up," he begins again, when she seems calmer. "Proposing to you at Ros' funeral; it was all wrong - I'd never even told you how I felt. We've always just…I don't know…tried to interpret each other's thoughts. And it's like trying to read something that's just a bit too far away; the words are blurred and you think you know what they are but you're not entirely sure so you guess. And sometimes you get it wrong."

She doesn't immediately respond but he can sense she's is trying to get her thoughts into some kind of order.

"I still feel guilty, sometimes," she says, lifting her head so she can look at him, "about what happened…to George, and Nico. It obscures my feelings for you, distorts them, and that makes it difficult for me to see how we can have any kind of relationship beyond work."

"I know telling you I love you isn't going to magically fix things," Harry replies, moved by her honesty, "and my timing is crap, as you rightly pointed out, but I would like us to try and have something that's more than just about work. And more than just about sex."

She wraps her arms around him. "I'd like that too."

Unwillingly, he extricates himself from her embrace. "Sorry, my arse has gone numb. I need to stand up."

Not knowing whether to laugh or tell him off, she settles for shaking her head at him and holding her hands out so he can help her up.

"You're still freezing," he observes, once she's back on her feet. "Are you going to tell me why you had the water so cold?"

It will sound irrational, crazy, but she wants to try and explain it to him; she owes him that much.

"The last time we…had…sex… Afterwards, at home, when I was getting ready for bed…I could smell you on my clothes, my skin. I could smell what we'd done. I thought about the way you'd touched me; I thought about you…inside me. It was exciting, arousing, but I felt so guilty and ashamed for having those feelings. And then tonight…" She falters for a moment. "I said…those dreadful things but I could still smell you, feel you. I just wanted to be…numb."

She looks up at him, wondering if she's made any sense.

"Is that what you still want?"

Ruth shakes her head.

"Then I think I can help."

-x-

They lie together on the bed, wrapped up in the thick, complimentary hotel bathrobes and each other's arms. For the first time in a long, long while, Ruth feels relaxed and contented. Before they'd got out of the shower, Harry had carefully washed her hair; then he'd washed her. He'd been gentle and tender, and she'd been struck by the similarities to their lovemaking in the way he'd touched her. But this time, his only goal had been to warm her.

"You asleep?" Harry asks, breaking in on her thoughts.

"Mmm."

"I'll interpret that as a 'no'," he teases. "Come on, let's get under the covers."

She protests as he moves away from her.

"Ruth, my feet are getting cold so unless you want me to warm them on you…"

The good-humoured threat works; she discards her robe and gets into the bed. As Harry spoons against her, Ruth reaches for his hand, pulling his arm around her. He whispers 'I love you' in her ear and she squeezes his fingers, hoping he'll understand.

He does.

**

* * *

I'm tempted to leave it there although I do have a couple of ideas that might produce another chapter or two… **


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